It was a Midsummer Night, and Mr. Punch in his sanctum dreamed a Dream! To adapt the Laureate's lay:—

It was the wondrous tale of Stanley which had turned the Sage's attention to the pages of the great Epic of Commerce.

He had read:—

And though even Africa has considerably changed since the year of grace 1497, when "daring Gama" went "incessant labouring round the stormy Cape," Mr. Punch thought of that great gloom-shrouded Equatorial Forest and its secular savage dwarf-denizens, and mused how much there was yet for our modern Gamas to do in the Dark Continent.

Mr. Punch found himself in the lovely "Isle of Venus," the delicious floral Paradise which the Queen of Love, "the guardian goddess of the Lusian race," created "amid the bosom of the watery waste," as "a place of glad repast and sweet repose," for the tired home-returning Gama and his companions.

"Of 'glad repast,'" said a familiar voice, "there is plenty and to spare; but for the 'sweet repose,' 'tis not to be found in this 'Isle of Banqueting.'"

"Mr. Stanley, I presume?" said the Sage.

"You cannot presume," rejoined H. M. neatly. "But some of these gregarious dinner-givers do, and sometimes,—yes, sometimes I'm afraid I let them see that I'm aware of it."

"As fame-preoccupied, country-loving Gama, wearied of the 'feasts, interludes, and chivalrous entertainments,' with which 'the taste of that age demonstrated the joy of Portugal,' might perchance have snubbed some too importunate Don. 'The compliments of the Court and the shouts of the streets were irksome to him,' says the chronicle."

"Salisbury is not quite a Prince Henry apparently," remarked the modern Gama. "He and his father John did not find the discoveries and acquisitions of their heroic compatriot 'embarrassing.' 'The arts and valour of the Portuguese had now made a great impression on the minds of the Africans. The King of Congo, a dominion of great extent, sent the sons of some of his principal officers to be instructed in arts and religion.' This was four hundred years ago! And now the Portuguese can be safely snubbed and sat upon, even by a Salisbury! But if your prudent Premier doesn't 'stiffen his back' a bit, with regard to the tougher and tentative Teuton, 'the arts and valour' of the Britishers will not make as great an impression on the minds of the Africans as your ill-used East African Company could desire."

"Don't be too downhearted, Henry," smiled the Sage. "Much dining-out doth breed dyspepsia, and atrabilious views are apt to be a leetle lop-sided."

"Right, Mr. Punch!" said a musical but somewhat mournful voice, that of the great but ill-starred Luis de Camoens himself. "I wrote much of my Lusiadas in Africa.

"'One hand the pen, and one the sword employed.'

"My reward was banishment, imprisonment, poverty, neglect, and a miserable death in an almshouse. 'Soon after, however,' says the record, 'many epitaphs honoured his memory: the greatness of his merit was universally confessed, and his Lusiad was translated into various languages.' 'The whirligig of time brings its revenges,' as your own illustrious Singer saith. How think you myself and my friend Vasco de Gama here look upon the fallen state of our beloved native land? In vain he ventured for her. In vain I warningly sang:—

Mr. Punch bowed low to the illustrious Poet and the indomitable Explorer. "Greatness," said he, courteously, "claims reverence, and misfortune respect. Your countrymen, Gentlemen, have been rather angry with me of late. But 'sterner Albion' may be proud indeed if she produces such men as Gama to perform heroic deeds, and such poets as Camoens to sing them." The stately Shades saluted. "I wonder," said Gama, "who will be the Laureate of the later Ulysses, and which of your singers will write the Epic of Africa?"

"I fear," said Mr. Punch, "that at present they are too busy smiting the Socialistic big drum, or tickling their sonorous native tongue into tinkling triolets. In this Island of Venus——"

"I beg pardon," interrupted Stanley, with a sardonic smile. "This Island of Menus, you mean, Mr. Punch!"

Mr. Punch looked around. The Acidalian roses and myrtles, the purple lotos and the snowy thorn, the yellow pod-flowers and the waving palms, the vermeil apples and the primrosed banks, of Camoens' somewhat zone-confounding vision, had indeed vanished, and in their stead seemed to wave snowy serviettes, to flow champagne-streams, to glitter goblets, and to glow orchid-laden Épergnes.

"Humph!" said the Sage. "The prose of the Restaurateur—which by the way sounds as if I were alluding to the literature of the Restauration,—hath insensibly superseded the poesy of the peerless Portuguese. Well, Gentlemen, in vain may 'sterner Albion' glory in the profusion of wealth and the pomp of 'glad repast,' unless also she breeds heroes to adventure and poets to celebrate. As you sang, my Camoens—

"For the present, Stanley's arm and Mr. Punch's pen suffice to save the State from such abasement. But let our timid Premiers and our temporising Press remember the glories of Gama and Camoens, and the fate of ungrateful and indolent Lusitania!"

"The Pen of Mr. Punch!" cried Camoens. "Ah, long have the valiant Vasco and myself desired to peruse its sparkling and patriotic outpourings.".

"And you, my Stanley," proceeded Mr. Punch, "said to the banqueting Fishmongers, 'I am an omnivorous reader whenever an opportunity presents itself.' It presents itself here and now. Take, Illustrious Trio, the greatest gift that even Punch can bestow upon you, to wit his